


Aftermath

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26432797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: It had been a long time since she had felt so helpless.Coincides with chapters 5-7 of Divide and Conquer
Kudos: 3





	Aftermath

“You would not! You would have waited for days before accusing me like you did my brother! He was innocent, I tell you! Innocent! And you locked him up like a common criminal!”

The voice echoed from the rooms above her, and she froze, listening. Her lodgers had just returned from an evening out. Why had they brought an argument home?

A tense silence fell, and she heard nothing for several minutes. Whatever was going on was too quiet to carry through the ceiling, and she grew wary. Something was wrong. If the silence lasted much longer, she would go up to ask if they needed anything.

Before she could move, however, the silence shattered in an instant.

“No!”

Mr. Holmes’ voice, tense with near panic, then a gunshot. The cry cut off abruptly, and the sounds of a scuffle filled the upstairs sitting room.

Grabbing a knife from the kitchen, she barricaded herself in her rooms as she had promised before stationing herself below their sitting room. She wanted to run upstairs, wanted to find out what was going on and how she could help, but she had promised to leave any intruders to them, despite the fact that the doctor had ensured she knew how to use a knife.

An agonizing scream echoed from the rooms above, carrying over the ongoing sounds of a fight, and her worry grew. What was going on up there, that the doctor would scream so? The choppy, piercing scream carried immense pain behind it, and it nearly sent a shiver running down her back. She had seen him do nothing more than grimace at an injury that would have left other men unconscious from the pain. What was happening?

Another gunshot blended with the scream, then the noise of the fight slowed as the screaming stopped. Silence fell, but she remained tense, listening. Was all right?

“Watson!”

No. Please, no. She leaned against the closest chair, a sob building at the grief in that name. Had she just listened to the doctor’s death? She hated her promise in that moment. If only she could go upstairs!

Why hadn’t they set up a way for her to call for help instead of relying on either Mr. Holmes or the doctor to signal an Irregular? She hurried to the kitchen, hoping to spot a familiar face she could signal from the window, but there was no one, and she rushed back to her spot beneath the upstairs sitting room.

There was a muted thump, and a heartbreaking sound carried through the ceiling—the sound of a body being dragged across the floor. She lowered herself into a chair and swallowed the sob rising in her throat, trying not to grieve until she knew for sure. It sounded horribly like she had just listened to Doctor Watson’s death.

“All clear, Mrs. Hudson!” The detective’s voice echoed down the stairs, and she dropped the knife she just realized she held in her hand, hurrying to open the door as he continued, “But it would be better if you did not come up yet.”

What did that mean? she wondered. Was the doctor alright? Was _Mr. Holmes_ alright? There was still grief in that voice, but there was not the emptiness she would expect if they would be attending a funeral.

Dear God, please don’t let it be because she would be attending _two_ funerals!

She hurried to the base of the stairs, worriedly calling, asking what had happened, if they were alright, but there was no answer.

“Mr. Holmes!”

Silence was her only reply, and she desperately hoped it was because he was focused on treating an injury and nothing else. With it safe to leave her rooms, she looked out the front door, searching for the Irregular that always kept watch on the flat.

The lad was gone, already dashing through the streets in search of whatever help Mr. Holmes had requested, and she settled in to wait. There would be no delay in aid reaching either of them if she had a say.

The minutes passed quietly as she scanned the road, and her grief built higher with every minute that silence reigned in the rooms above. What was going on up there? Were they alright? She wanted to help. She wanted to go upstairs to assure herself that her boys were alive, but she forced herself to focus. The police wagon would arrive at the door any minute, and she would need to have a clear head, to let them in before they were forced to break the door down.

“No! No, look out!”

The words were screamed, filling the flat with their urgency, but the grief building in her chest released as a sob of relief. That was the doctor’s voice! He was alive!

“Get down! Murray, help the lieutenant!”

The grief remained absent, but her worry returned as she realized that Doctor Watson was not coherent. What was happening up there? Was the doctor sick?

“Watson! Watson, you’re home! You’re safe! Watson, listen to me!” Worry and grief mixed with near panic and carried easily down the stairs.

“Help!” “Watson!” “No! You won’t take me!” “You’re safe, Watson! Quit fighting me!”

The sounds of a scuffle returned as the two voices mixed, yelling, ordering, pleading, and all she could do was listen and worry.

It had been a long time since she had felt so helpless.

It was several long minutes before the chaos faded to silence, but the silence was almost worse than the noise.

Was the doctor alive? Was Mr. Holmes alright?

“…answer me! …Come on, Watson, focus!”

She gripped the doorframe, listening for an answer and hearing nothing, and her worry grew. She desperately wanted to go up there and check on them, but Mr. Holmes had told her to stay downstairs until help arrived.

Where _was_ help? It was taking much longer than usual for the Irregular to return with whomever Mr. Holmes had requested, and a new worry bloomed as she wondered if something had happened to the lad. Had their attacker worked with a partner to take out anyone that went for help? She knew that some of the blackguards Mr. Holmes caught would have no problem attacking a child.

Movement outside caught her eye before she could decide to go herself, and she breathed a sigh of relief as five Yarders sprinted up to the door, Inspector Lestrade in the lead.

“The sitting room,” she said unnecessarily as they stormed in, casting another worried glance at the silent rooms above them.

They bolted up the stairs, and she followed slowly. She would not interrupt, but she _had_ to know.

“What took you so long?” she faintly heard Mr. Holmes snap as she reached the top of the stairs. The worry in his voice did nothing for her own apprehension, and she strained, listening for the doctor’s voice.

Noise on the front step prevented her from hearing, however, and she hurried to answer the door as an urgent knock sounded. Her worry lent her speed, and she opened the door to see Doctor Agar, his hand still raised to knock.

“Inspector Lestrade said I was needed here,” he said both as a greeting and an explanation for his presence as he stepped inside.

“They are up in the sitting room.”

Nodding his thanks to her, he hurried up the steps, and she faintly noticed that he was breathing just as heavily as the Yarders had been.

Neither of her lodgers would ever willingly be treated by anyone beside the other, and her worry only grew at the knowledge that Mr. Holmes had asked for another doctor. The detective knew almost as much about medicine as Doctor Watson himself. What could have happened that Mr. Holmes would call someone else to treat the results?

She climbed to the landing yet again, desperately listening, hoping to hear a second familiar voice come from those rooms, but behind the closer voices of several policemen, all she could hear was Mr. Holmes and Doctor Agar.

The other voices grew louder, and four Yarders came out carrying a bound stranger as a police wagon finally pulled up to the door below. Inspector Lestrade came out a minute behind the others, and she hurried to him.

“Inspector! Are—?” She broke off, struggling to say the words, but he seemed to understand her worry.

“They are fine,” he assured her. “They were both alert when I left.”

Some of the tension fled her shoulders, but not all. All would not fade until she saw them for herself. “Do they need anything?”

He shook his head. “They are fine, Mrs. Hudson,” he said again, “but it is probably best if you do not go in. Doctor Watson got the worst of this one, and it will take a few minutes to get him settled.”

She nodded reluctantly, and the Inspector followed the others down the stairs as she settled back in to wait. Reassurances or no, there was no way she would go back downstairs without seeing for herself that they were alright. If it was better that she not interrupt, she would wait until one of them came to her.

Voices carried faintly through the closed door, but they were too quiet to make out the words or their owner. She supposed that was better than the screaming, though. Provided there was no more screaming, her boys would probably be alright.

Probably being the key word. She never moved, listening. Waiting.

Doctor Agar eventually came out of the sitting room, but she merely politely showed him out the door and returned to her post. The only thing the other doctor would ever tell her was that his patient would be fine, and she had eventually stopped asking him, preferring to wait until she could talk to one of her boys. _They_ would tell her the truth.

A querulous voice carried from the sitting room, and she nearly chuckled at the sound as she relaxed slightly. If the doctor was awake enough to be that irritated, there was a good chance he would recover from whatever had happened.

The voices continued, but she could no longer distinguish them. Her wait was easier, however, having heard the doctor’s voice, no matter how weak it was.

Easier did not mean easy, though, as the minutes passed and still no one emerged. The voices faded completely, and she was growing close to knocking on the door herself, no matter the possibility of it being an inconvenient interruption, when a commotion sounded in the sitting room.

Footsteps pounded, crossing to the door in four nearly running strides, and she moved into the light. Had something gone wrong? Would she need to bring the doctor back?

The sitting room door flew open, and Mr. Holmes barely stopped it from slamming into the wall as he barreled out to the landing, alarm written across his face. She hurried to him, her worry amplifying at the alarm in his gaze.

He stopped on seeing her, though, the alarm turning to confusion, and she realized that he had just noticed her absence. Regretting his worry, she sought to explain.

“The Inspector said I shouldn’t interrupt, that you both were alert and needed no help, but I could hear everything. Is the doctor—?”

He relaxed, and she almost saw a hint of relief as he answered, “Watson will recover, but I doubt he will move far from the settee for a few days.”

“Oh, thank Heaven,” she sighed, relief washing away the last of her worry. Whatever had happened, it was over, and her boys would come out the other side. All that was left was the recovery. “Do you need anything? Does he need anything?”

He hesitated before answering, his gaze growing distant as he thought. “He is asleep, for now, but I imagine he will be hungry when he wakes. Perhaps some broth?”

She nodded. That would be easy enough. “Anything else?”

He shook his head. “Watson will be alright with some rest. Just the broth, for now. I do not think he will be up for anything more tonight.”

She had meant for _him_ , and she frowned slightly but let it drop. If he would not ask, she would bring something up anyway, and if he did not like it, he could ask for something different. It would probably take the irritation for him to remember to eat, anyway. Neither of them ate well when the other was injured.

She turned to go down to the kitchen, but before she could turn fully, a glimpse of white caught her eye, and she spotted the bandage tied around his arm. Some of her worry returned.

“Are you alright?”

His response was immediate, but it was the flicker of a smile on his face that calmed her more than the words. “It is little more than a graze. It will heal.”

Relief washed over her again, and she turned toward the stairs to put a kettle on for tea and begin cooking. She had been planning a soup for this evening, anyway, and it would only take a bit of change to have enough broth for the doctor. She would cook something more substantial for Mr. Holmes. After such a day, he would need food, and goodness knows _he_ would likely forget to eat if the doctor was not there to remind him.

The doctor hated bedrest nearly as much as the detective, and she started planning ways to tempt the appetite that always flagged after an injury. While the soup simmered, she would write up a list of things to buy for meals. They would need simpler meals for a few days, and she would have to plan for Mr. Holmes, as well. He would only eat if it was simple enough to manage with most of his focus on Doctor Watson, especially if the doctor was injured enough to require aid, which narrowed the menu possibilities considerably.

She hurried into the kitchen, already planning ways she could be of help in the coming days. Her boys might rather she not try to help at first, but they would never be able to stop her from helping in the aftermath.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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